


Fall for a Shooting Star

by blackchaps



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Guilt, M/M, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, POV Multiple, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:11:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2352884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackchaps/pseuds/blackchaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the Battle of New York, Clint tries to clean up the mess left behind with no thought to a future. After all, Coulson is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall for a Shooting Star

**Author's Note:**

> There is a lot of narration in this story, and I apologize in advance for it. I had intended to stay only in Clint's POV, but Fury had other ideas. I think he was sick of all the yadda yadda so he started pushing the story along. The italics in this story represent lip-reading, not ASL. I wrote this at the same time as a Big Bang so hopefully it makes sense!

*******

Glass hurt. That was the lesson, and it was one that Clint kept learning over and over again. Stupid quiver – that he loved – didn’t help things at all. Gravity made him arch in pain again, and spots danced in front of his eyes.

Alive was nice. He’d take it, even if it hurt like hell.

The agony dimmed to pain, and the lack of noise in his left ear meant that he’d lost one of his com units. The right one chattered from the Avengers and nearby Shield agents on the same frequency. It was bad, so bad, and there was no way they’d ever win. Nuke coming in, no time to evacuate anyone, not even the rich fat cats.

“That’s a one way trip, Stark.”

Clint dragged in a painful breath, knowing better than to roll over into more glass. Shock morphed into anger when he was brutally yanked into the air by his vest. A Chitauri screamed in his face, shaking him like a rag doll, and Clint had two seconds to live.

Maybe less.

“Who’s in charge? Where’s Coulson? We need him on the ground!”

“Iron Man is through the wormhole!”

“Get these civilians out of here!”

“Coulson is down! Sitwell is in charge! All agents report to him!”

One second left, and shock at three words he’d never expected to hear made him weak. Fine. Kill him. He’d be done with this bullshit.

“All agents switch to channel ten,” Fury growled. “Avengers report!”

The Chitauri fired his gun at the ceiling and threw Clint against the wall. The gun came up level, and Clint stayed down. He was finished. None of it mattered now. “Do it, you fucker!”

The insect alien thing roared, head thrown back, and collapsed as if his strings had been cut. Clint stared, not understanding, trying to find strength to get up. “Loki hired a bunch of losers to invade New York,” he muttered. “Hell, I could’ve done better.”

“Black Widow?”

“I’m here. With Selvig.”

“Hawkeye? Report!” Captain America’s voice came through strong and clear. “Close it.”

Staggering to the window to watch seemed like too much work. Clint leaned against the wall and breathed, not responding.

“He’s not slowing down!”

A Hulk roar made Clint wince even with only one comm unit.

“Hawkeye, what is your position?” Natasha this time, and she sounded worried.

Clint switched his comm to channel ten.

“I don’t give a shit what Coulson would’ve done! He’s dead! I’m in command! Now move your asses!” Sitwell sounded truly pissed off. “Ward! Get to Stark Tower and move Loki’s scepter into our care. That’s your priority!”

“On it,” Ward said, voice flat as usual.

Clint forced a shuddering breath through his lungs. He needed to report. He did.

“And someone find Hawkeye! I want him in a holding cell ASAP!”

Fingers shaking, mind blank, shock did that, Clint took the comm unit from his ear and flipped it out the broken window. He didn’t care what they were saying any longer. Blood traced its way down his arm, sweat trickled near his ear, and everything in the world seemed to slow until even a breath took forever. He took another, letting it all settle. Coulson, dead. Stark, dead. Natasha, fine, nothing could kill her. Clint tugged a piece of glass from his arm, wondering if Loki still needed an arrow in his eye.

Methodically, he stripped off his quiver, bracers, and tab, dropping it all to the floor. A muffled explosion brought his attention up, and he felt the building tremble. Time to go if he wanted to live, and that question lingered, but then he shrugged, removing his vest to fall alongside his quiver.

Turning, he took a deep breath and ran.

********

“Where the fuck is Barton?” Fury raged at everyone and anyone who would listen.

Those fuckers from FOX news turned up with the video of Barton crashing into a building, going right through the glass. Romanov sucked in a breath. “That building collapsed, well, the top floors.”

“Find him,” Fury growled. He’d lost too many to give up this soon.

*********

The building shook to death around him, but the stairs lasted long enough to deliver Clint to the lower levels. He was covered in dust, blood stains, with chunks of ceiling in his hair, providing excellent camouflage, when he finally emerged on the street. He looked just like everyone else. Shell-shocked. Horrified. Bloodied and beaten.

He knew the city was ablaze with sound: sirens, helicopters, and screams. His good ear, the right one, seemed full of dust, and he stumbled through silence as Manhattan fell apart around him. The Chitauri were dead, all of them, monsters strewn through streets and hanging from buildings.

The wormhole was gone, sky empty, but he took an extra second to stare, hoping Loki was on the other side.

Someone grabbed him, and he controlled his reaction, taking the offered blanket. He mumbled his thanks, and the paramedic pointed, spewing words that Clint couldn’t hear and couldn’t be bothered to decipher. With a nod, Clint made his way over smashed cement, around destroyed cars, and twice he stopped to check for a pulse, but they were dead, eyes wide.

He’d done this. Loki never would’ve come so far without Clint guiding the way. Clint was one of the best, and that wasn’t pride talking, that was just a fact. Monsters and magic, and Nat was wrong. He was to blame. This was more red than any ledger could hold.

Shield agents headed straight for him, and he didn’t even blink until they were long gone, unable to find him in a sea of destruction. If he had an ounce of courage, he’d go after them, take them up on that offer of a cell, but old instincts died hard, and he hid under his blanket, legs too tired to take him another step further inside the crumbled remains of a coffee shop.

*********

“Well?” Fury demanded, feeling as if the world had taken a shit on him today.

Romanov placed a bow and quiver on his desk without saying a word.

“Damn it,” he said, seeing the glint in her eye. “You done here?”

“Sitwell is still looking. He claims you ordered Barton arrested.” Romanov’s voice was pitched low and dangerous.

Fury thought it was all a bunch of semantic bullshit. “I’d like to speak with Barton, yes.” He kept his tone mild and his eye on her hands. She might not try to kill him. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like as much intel on the Chitauri as possible. Barton has information we need.”

“There’s blood on the quiver.” Romanov never took her eyes off him. “If he’s alive, he’ll contact me.”

“Sooner would be better than later.” Fury pulled the bow closer, seeing that it was broken beyond repair from taking a dive off a New York skyscraper. “Crazy fucker.”

********

“Coffee.” Clint hissed in pain when he pushed the blanket off his face. There was light. It was day time, and that seemed like an important fact, not that he could do anything with it. No sounds reached his ears, but he wasn’t giving up on his right ear yet. He could still smell coffee, and he rubbed the grit from his eyes to take a blurry look around. Coffee beans were all over the floor, having spilt from their containers. He picked one up, blew on it, and ate it. “Not bad.”

Shoving aside some crap, he found a place to lean back and chew on beans that he rescued from the floor. From what he could tell, these were quality beans. Carefully, he stretched his muscles, one at a time, making note of what parts of his body seemed to want to work. His arms were the worst, feeling like noodles. He swiped more gunk from his eyes and considered getting to his feet.

A shirt would be nice, he decided, and he’d have to go find one. He had a bolt hole here in New York, but he was sure Nat knew about it. He trusted her. He did, but she’d want him in medical and from there it was one quick march to a cell. Sure, he was to blame for all this, but that didn’t mean he intended to rot in prison for it.

Not unless Loki was there too, and then he’d go happily. What he needed was intel, and he popped another handful of beans in his mouth. Coulson was dead, or so they said. Clint would be more convinced if he could see the body for himself. In his experience, that ranger was hard to kill.

Sitwell had sounded unbalanced, even dangerous, and Clint had never liked him. Clint stuck his finger in his good ear and wiggled, wincing at the pain but trying to get enough dirt out to hear something. Not much filtered through, and it was possible that this section of the city was quiet.

With a heave and a push, he yowled and got his boots on the ground. The world spun in circles, and he took a deep breath. He needed water and more sleep. He knew the signs of dehydration and exhaustion.

A flurry of movement to his left made him turn, ready to fight, but it was firefighters, paramedics, and he could see them talking, but he was getting nothing. He needed to run, but his legs were not up to that idea, and again he was wrapped in a blanket. One of them got right in Clint’s face, talking up a storm, and Clint did the only thing he could think of. He pointed to his ears and shook his head violently. “Can’t hear. Can’t hear!”

From there, it was easier. They still put him on a gurney with a trip to an ambulance, but there was water, blessed water, and an IV that he didn’t protest because he needed it. Again, someone got in his face to talk, and in frustration, he grabbed a sharpie from the guy’s pocket. On his filthy forearm, in big letters, he wrote: I am deaf.

They stopped talking, at least to him, and he let them clean and bandage his wounds, wondering when he’d picked up the gash on his head. He needed to stay alert, make a break for it as soon as possible, but he felt his eyes drooping, days of no sleep forcing him down. A hand came at him with a needle, and he was ashamed that he didn’t even fight about it.

********

“Sorry, sir, but there is still considerable confusion among the agents. The area of containment is impossible with the number of people we have available!”

Fury nodded, listening with half a mind to a dozen television feeds. “All the government agencies are pulling together, but Shield needs to do what we do best.”

_“A miracle today as what we understand is a disabled man was pulled from the wreckage of an absolutely destroyed coffee shop in the shadow of Stark Tower.”_

“We need to pull Garrett stateside,” Sitwell said.

Very tired of Sitwell’s hard-on for Garrett, Fury shook his head. “Protect as many as you can.”

_“No one knows how he got there, but doctors say while his condition is serious that he will recover.”_

“Just amazing.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Fury got a glimpse, and he transferred the video to his computer without looking at the screen. He tilted his head at Sitwell. “Are you through complaining? Ready to go back to work?”

“Everyone is asking when Coulson’s funeral will be,” Sitwell whined.

“Get the fuck out of my office!” Fury leaned and placed his hands precisely in a manner that scared agents shitless. Sitwell shut the door hard behind him, and Fury sighed. “My one good eye is out of commission, and I’m left with that.” He cued up the video, without sound, and watched it all the way through before deleting it. He leaned back in his chair, a smirk teasing at his lips.

********

It never paid to rush waking up when he had no idea where he was, and he couldn’t hear a goddamn thing. He worked on opening his eyes, trying to stretch without being obvious about it, but someone must’ve been watching because soon there was a hand on his arm. Without thinking, he shoved it away and sat up, trailing IV lines. The guy’s eyes were wide, and then his hands began to talk. Clint groaned and rubbed his eyes, glancing about and figuring that he wasn’t in a hospital. If anything it looked more like a converted bank, or office building.

“I guess the hospitals are full,” he said, knowing it was more guilt to drop at his door. His voice sounded like he’d eaten gravel, and he met the stranger’s eyes.

_You can talk?_

Clint had no trouble reading the guy’s lips. “I’m deaf, not mute. Actually, I wasn’t completely deaf, until now?” He put his hand up to his ear and winced away. “Ow.” Then he groaned, “Aw, no.”

A tap on the hand brought his eyes back to the stranger.

_The doctor said your injury permanently damaged your ear._

“Yeah, no shit.” Clint couldn’t even hear his own words, and he wanted to cringe, or hit someone hard. He scrubbed his free hand through his hair, not caring that it hurt and he was filthy. “Shower?”

The guy shook his head and handed him a package of bath wipes. _Sorry._

“How about some clothes? A shirt?” Clint tore open the wipes and started trying to get the worst of the dirt off his body, glad to see his pants and boots were still there. He sucked in a few breaths at some spectacular bruises, removing the IV line without a thought. He didn’t need it any longer. Nurses moved among the patients on gurneys, checking this and that, and he could see several people who looked like they needed a hospital, not a triage center.

Movement on his right caught his attention, and it was a scowling nurse, who was clearly unhappy about the state of Clint’s IV. Clint gave her a smile and put his legs over the side of the gurney. He used another wipe to clean his arms, almost laughing at his ‘I am deaf’ sign before it hit him that he was deaf now.

She put her hands on his shoulders like she might push him down, and he got to his feet, patting her on the arm. “I’m good. I was tired, that’s all,” he said to reassure her, ignoring a host of stitches and bruises that said otherwise. He needed to get out of here. Shield would be checking all triage centers and hospitals for him. He was sure of that.

The guy who knew sign language was back, and he handed Clint a plain, blue T-shirt. _You can’t leave. The press wants to talk to you._

“I’m so gone.” Clint shrugged into the shirt, wiped his hands one more time, and headed for the nearest exit sign. The nurse looked as if she might chase after him, and then she waved her hands in the air and went the other direction. Clint didn’t even glance at the main doors, spotting some stairs and going up and up. Finding the back fire escape was dead easy, and he was down in the alley in a blink. From there, avoiding the press wasn’t even a challenge, and he snagged a jacket from an upside-down car, not slowing down until he was far from cameras. Three streets over, and he knew where he was. Taking a deep breath, he circled, searching until he found one of the Red Cross centers. He was sure there were dozens of them, but this one was perfect, close to Stark Tower.

********

“Did you find him?” Fury met Romanov at the quinjet, hating his office with a fiery passion. Sitwell showed up there constantly.

Her face showed nothing, not even a twitch. “His bolt hole was destroyed. He’s not in any of the morgues or hospitals.”

“Hawkeye would rather die than get medical care.” Fury turned to survey the deck of his helicarrier. “You bunking over with Stark like Banner?”

“Where’s the tracker put Rogers?”

Fury smiled, knowing it made her nervous. “Take a week, then I got a job for you.”

“And Barton?” Her jaw betrayed her anger.

He shrugged. “Dead. Paperwork went through yesterday. Found some of his clothing, torn to shreds.”

Eyes flashing, she didn’t bother to try to look calm now. “No.”

“Report to Sitwell in a week.” He left her there, making his way down to the engine room to check repairs. If Hawkeye was smart, he’d stay dead.

********

The Red Cross always needed volunteers, but he started off slow, spending most of the first three days sleeping and eating MREs. After that, boredom set in, even though he still felt like shit. He hauled water and helped some elderly people get settled, glad he couldn’t hear the crying. If anyone talked at him, he flashed his arm, not willing to even try.

On the seventh day, the on-site administrator caught him by the arm. Clint sighed before looking her in the face. It was probably time for him to leave.

_Thanks for your help. What’s your name?_

“Clint.” He hoped he wasn’t shouting or slurring his words yet. It’d happen soon.

She smiled. _There’s a bed for you in the blue trailer, Clint. If you want. Melissa went back to Wisconsin today._

He had no idea who Melissa was, but he nodded, going to gather the few items that he’d collected in the last week: an extra shirt, a shaving kit, and a tattered copy of _The Devil in the White City_. He didn’t like it, but people usually left him alone if his book was up. The trailer was nothing more than an RV, converted to sleep eight, but there was a curtain to pull for privacy and a tiny bathroom with a shower. Clint had no trouble remembering missions where he’d had a lot less. Hell, in New Mexico, he’d slept in the back of a truck on a sleeping bag for days.

The memory of Coulson interrogating Thor hit Clint hard, and he sat down on his bed with a thump. He lowered his face into his hands and shut his eyes to push it all away. Coulson was dead, nothing to do about it. Nothing. Clint had to live with it. He wasn’t sure how, and he couldn’t ask Nat for advice. He trusted her. He did, but Fury was no idiot. Fury would find him through her, and Clint didn’t want to be found. Not yet. Maybe never.

All he’d wanted to do was help people with his skills. What a damn joke. He should’ve stayed in Iowa and become a drunk like his father. He’d have hurt less people in the long run. The whole world would’ve thanked him for it.

The scent of aftershave made him flinch and look up. One of the other volunteers stood not far away, face embarrassed. _Shipment came in. Can you help?_

Clint nodded, determined to find another pair of pants and some extra underwear.

_You should have a doctor look at those stitches. I think they need to come out._

Shrugging, Clint beat the young man out the door. He had a truck to unload. If he were lucky, his muscles would burn and his brain would shut down. No thinking. None. It never led to any place good.

********

“He’s begging to die.”

“Sounds like a Thursday. No damn way. You get his ass fit for duty.” Fury slammed the phone down and glared at Hill. “Get someone over there you trust. Keep Sitwell in the dark.”

“You don’t trust him.”

Fury pointed at the door. “Secure our asset.” He didn’t watch her leave, deleting six emails from Romanov that no doubt were nothing but complaints about Barton. She needed to move on with her life.

********

Fourteen days after Clint jumped through glass, the Red Cross relocated everyone who was left and closed that location. Clint helped secure the trailers properly, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and headed down to Central Park with fifty dollars in his pocket. He also had a couple of changes of clothing and a new book.

It could’ve been worse.

New York scurried around him. The National Guard walked alongside regular folks, along with a host of other alphabet agencies, and the toughest thing was going to be staying away from surveillance cameras. So much alien tech just littered on the ground, and everyone wanted to get their hands on it. He found a group to walk with, trying to blend, and he stopped when they did, some pointing at the sky.

A blur of red and gold for them, but he could clearly see Iron Man, carrying part of one of those huge monsters. Breath caught in his throat, and he ducked away from his crowd, finding a dumpster to slump against, trying to think. Stark was alive. He never shared his toys, so he was flying that suit of armor, and if he was alive, well, then… Clint stared at his boots.

It was time to find out what the hell was going on, but carefully, very carefully. He abandoned his comfy dumpster and hot-footed through the streets of Manhattan, careful to leave his hoodie up with baseball hat in place.

The place to start was the New York Public Library, since his ears wouldn’t let him watch the news. No one gave him a second look when he grabbed two weeks’ worth of newspapers and sat down at a back table to catch up the hard way. The Avengers – stupid name – were on the front page of every paper, every day, even still.

There was even a picture of Stark, falling towards New York City. The wormhole had spit him out, and that made Clint grin. Stark was so annoying even a wormhole wouldn’t keep him, but he was a hero – a real one. He’d saved them all, even Clint, and it made no sense why all the Chitauri died at the same time, but they were aliens, so anything was possible.

Loki was gone with Thor back to Asgard, and Clint had to smooth the paper flat from where he’d crumpled it in anger. At least he was gone, but it was cold comfort to everyone he’d killed. Clint took a deep breath, checked his surroundings, and continued, discovering that he was dead on page two of the New York Post. They were calling him The Lost Avenger, and The Hero Avenger, and a bunch of other bullshit that made him rub his eyes and wish it all away. He’d even received the Medal of Honor, posthumously, of course.

He wanted to cry. He hadn’t cried since, forever, but this was tipping him to the edge. Not one damn word about Coulson, not one, and the world thought Clint was a hero. It was more bullshit than a man was meant to handle. Swallowing hard, he slid his hands down the length of his thighs and willed it away. So he was dead, nothing to see here. He checked his perimeter again, glad that no one was even close, and forced himself to go back to reading. No mention of Shield anywhere, and he wasn’t surprised they had managed to stay in the shadows. It was what they did best.

An hour later, he was done, and since he was dead, it was time to find a new life. He’d just have to forget the old one, and Coulson, and start over. Simple. Easy. He might’ve stumbled, getting up from the table, and his eyes might’ve been foggy, but he moved, and he’d keep on moving, helping clean up his mess. Someday, years from now, when the last building was fixed and Manhattan shined again, he’d turn himself over to Shield and let them put him in a dark hole. Until then, he’d keep going.

********

“You awake, Cheese?”

“Not so much.”

“You through dying?” Fury yanked the curtain on the window closed, thinking it was time to move Coulson to a safer location.

“Maybe so.”

“I need your help.”

“As usual.”

“I’ve only got one good eye.” Fury watched him fall asleep between one breath and the next, and he might’ve twitched the blanket a bit higher. Coulson would recover quickly now, and with some rehab, he could be back in the field within a month or two. Fury nodded, sure he’d done the right thing, and he shut the door behind himself with barely a click. He dug out his phone and pushed a button. “Hill, get Coulson moved.”

*********

His hard hat bore the word DEAF on it in big, bold letters on both sides. The foreman had insisted on it the first job that Clint took, and even though that was six jobs ago, he’d kept the hard hat. There was always a construction crew needing help, and no one cared all that much that he was deaf. There was work, and they needed people willing to work long, hard hours.

The pay was ridiculous, and he wondered why they couldn’t afford to pay people a decent wage. No one was willing to give him an answer to that question, not that he’d ask. He didn’t get paid at all, because he refused to give anyone his name or social security number. The construction bosses assumed he was mute as well as deaf, and all that mattered was the work. He was careful, and he still loved the high places, willing to go where no one else dared to clean up a mess or retrieve equipment. Once a week, the job boss would give him some cash in an envelope, unless the guy forgot. Clint didn’t much care. He had a room at a YMCA and it more than met his needs. After the Battle of New York, the Manhattan YMCA had been full of refugees, and he’d shared a room with four other men, but now it was down to him. He had a membership, and a room, and when he wasn’t working, he swam or helped with one of their programs.

Everyone called him ‘the deaf guy’ and he almost wished he had energy to care. He could still read lips like a champ, sharp eyesight came in handy for that, but he usually didn’t bother. He worked, and then he tried to help, and then if his brain let him, he slept.

Once or twice, high above the city, perched on a piece of equipment, he noticed that Manhattan was getting on its feet again, but once he hit the ground, there was so much to do, and he refused to think about anything but the task in front of him. When the job was done, he’d go to Shield, let them punish him for the people he’d killed there, but not one damn minute sooner.

*********

Pulling his coat a little tighter, Fury hunkered down and determined to take this conversation where he wanted it to go.

“No.” Phil wiped his mouth with his napkin and threw it down on his tray. “I see it in your eye, Nick.”

“Bullshit.” Fury noticed Phil’s lack of appetite. “Things have changed since you fell down on the job.”

“I wasn’t dead that long. We worked for years to get the Avengers right where we wanted them, and now you’re telling me that they don’t even talk? That they can’t stand the sight of each other?”

Fury wanted to curse his own impatience. “You were in a coma for months. Rogers lives in Washington, and we use him whenever we can. Dr. Banner lived in Stark Tower until Tony’s Stark’s PTSD drove him to another continent. Stark is back in Malibu, and crazy as a bedbug is what I hear. Thor went home and stayed there.”

Phil crossed his arms, bags under his eyes and pale as a ghost. “And I suppose Romanov and Barton are off on a mission somewhere.” He sighed. “It seems like such a waste.”

“If we need them, they’ll come back,” Fury said, saying it for the tenth time. “Maybe not Stark, but the rest of them.” He needed to keep the focus off Barton. “The world has changed, and Shield along with it.”

“Is that why I’m hidden away?” Phil always knew the score. It was damn annoying. “Afraid someone will try to finish the job?”

“Yes.” Fury went with the blunt truth. He was worried. He had one good eye, and he had to take care of it for everyone at Shield. “It always pays to be careful.”

“So the plan is to keep me dead? Send me on missions too sensitive for anyone else?” Phil didn’t look happy about it at all. “Did I even get a nice tombstone?”

“You’re buried at Arlington.” Fury shrugged at Phil’s blink of surprise. “I need you to go places and do things that I can’t.”

“Just like always.” Phil sighed, shoved the tray away, and settled back against his pillow. “I’m going to need a nap first.”

Fury said nothing, waiting for his friend to fall asleep and it didn’t take long. The world, and Shield, was stranger than it had ever been, and he was going to need Agent Coulson to get out there and make sense of it all. None of the Avengers needed to know that Phil was alive. It wasn’t in their best interest.

*********

The job was done. It’d been one of the easier ones because Stark had bought the property and instead of putting up a building, the space would be a park, or something that didn’t require a contractor.

The boss gave Clint another envelope and started on about something, but Clint wasn’t interested. He had to find another mess to clean up, and he was thinking of heading over to Grand Central Station. Tucking his hard hat away in his backpack, he started to make his way there, taking time for a hot dog on the corner. He no longer worried about surveillance cameras. His hair was long, usually dirty, and he looked nothing like Agent Barton.

Hawkeye was long gone as well, and Clint only felt guilty about Natasha. There was one other person who mattered, but he was dead, or so they’d said. Clint wiped his face on a napkin, forcing it all away again. He had to find work, not stand around thinking about stupid shit that he couldn’t change.

Someone bumped him, and he turned, getting out of the way. People surged to cross the street, and he let himself be swept along with them. There was still barricades and tape on this side, and he hesitated, trying to remember, and then it came to him. He was near the coffee shop that had been destroyed. The one that had sheltered him after he’d collapsed. It still looked like hell, one lone guy with a push broom getting damn little done.

Clint ducked under the tape and approached the guy with care, not wanting to look like a threat.

 _What do you want? We’re closed!_ The guy laughed at his own joke.

Unzipping his backpack, Clint dug out his hard hat. “Help you?” he croaked, voice rusty from disuse.

The guy flinched, eyed the hard hat, and then shrugged. He had a lot to say about no money and too many crooks (or something) and how insurance sucked, but Clint stopped watching after he got his hands on a broom. This was something he could do.

********

Coulson was competent, thorough, and once he got an idea in his head, there was no shaking it loose until it’d played out. All qualities that made a stellar agent and friend, and right now, Fury could’ve wished for a little less perfection.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Fury stared at Coulson, knowing he was losing this damn battle. “Cheese, for once, listen to me. Romanov is on a classified mission. I’m not reading you in on it.”

After a second more of a glaring match, Coulson glanced behind him and then sat gingerly on the edge of the chair in front of Fury’s desk. “Barton’s dead.”

“Damn it.” Fury should’ve remembered that Coulson was the best damn interrogator in the business. Coulson read between the lines and never reached the wrong conclusion. Fury shrugged. “I never should’ve told you anything.”

“You should’ve let me die.” Coulson looked haunted and then wiped it away. “But, you didn’t because you have a god complex. Now, give me the file on Barton.” He paused. “The complete one.”

“All we got is some footage from FOX news. Romanov found his gear in the rubble. He’s gone.” Fury pulled the file from his bottom drawer and handed it over. “Romanov swears Hawkeye never contacted her, and he would’ve if he was alive.”

Coulson’s shoulders tucked a little tighter. “If he’s dead like I was, he’s fine.”

Fury didn’t know how to answer that, and he wasn’t sharing his own suspicions. Barton was better off dead than a scapegoat on the altar of WSC’s anger. “They call him ‘The Lost Avenger’ and I sent his Medal of Honor to Romanov. Hawkeye is dead.”

“But Barton’s not.” Coulson left without another word, Fury could tell from the tilt of that stubborn jaw that this was far from over. Damn it.

********

There was a tiny apartment over the coffee shop, and Clint lived there now, missing the YMCA but enjoying being able to work whenever he wanted. Once, he worked for three straight days before collapsing in a corner. He’d crawled upstairs, huddled under the trickle of water from a mostly broken shower and then stumbled to a rickety bed where he’d slept until the nightmares forced him awake.

There was always fresh coffee, and Clint appreciated the fact that it was strong enough to wake the dead. His boss talked and laughed all the time, not seeming to need Clint to respond. Clint learned plumbing and electrical, and they both learned how to apply for a grant from Stark Enterprises. When the grant came through, they celebrated with coffee and a trip to get drywall. He never got paid, but there was always food and coffee, and things were getting better. His little apartment was almost livable, still needing a window or two, but improved, and downstairs was starting to look like a coffee shop again.

The thought of moving on again when the job was done made Clint’s stomach twist. It wasn’t that he cared, hell no, but he was tired. That was his excuse. He was tired. Damn it.

********

Fury said nothing for an entire two fucking weeks, but at the end of it, he was done. He stomped into Coulson’s office and did his best to look damn intimidating as he stood over Coulson at his desk.

“I didn’t even assign you an office!”

Coulson didn’t take his eyes off the computer. “He worked at a Red Cross center right after the battle, but I’ve lost him again.”

“Cheese,” Fury slammed the door shut, “you can’t find him. Hawkeye is dead, and Barton is wanted by the WSC.”

There was a long moment where Coulson’s eyes continue to flick across whatever data was on his screen, and then he looked up. “Barton was declared dead.”

“That doesn’t mean the WSC won’t arrest him if he shows up.” Fury could see he was fighting a losing battle. “I need you to get a new team together, do what you do best. Let Barton disappear.”

“I thought, maybe, maybe, I could do that, after I made sure he was alive and that he was… happy.” Coulson leaned back in the chair and rubbed his face. He looked tired, worn out. “And then I saw this.” He made a couple of clicks on the screen and turned it so Fury could see.

It was Barton, all right, caught on a bank camera. He looked like hell had eaten him and spit him out. The word ‘deaf’ was scrawled on his forearm. He was thin, beat down, and his eyes were blank, no life in them. No spark of humor, no wise cracks, nothing left but despair and misery, dressed in ragged clothes.

“I give the fuck up.” Fury yanked a chair close and sat down. “Find him, but if anyone gets wind of this project and gets to him first...”

Coulson nodded, frowning. “You don’t trust Shield.”

“I have trust issues. We know this.” Fury trusted Coulson, but there was no reason to discuss it. “I’m saying you need to find a cover story.”

“Got it.” Coulson was a master at cover stories. He’d given a class in it once. “When I find him, I’ll report to the Bus, gather my team.”

“Make sure his new identity is rock solid, and we will never speak of this again.” Fury would contact Romanov, and hopefully, she wouldn’t try to kill him. “Think he’ll be as pissed as you are about being alive?”

“I expect so, but if I have to do it, so does he.” Coulson sounded grim, tired. “I’ll bring him in from the cold, and maybe…” He trailed off and shrugged.

“Yeah, maybe.”

********

Clint arranged the outdoor furniture one more time and then sat down to stare up at Stark Tower. The papers said Stark was dead, but Clint had a hard time believing that. Stark had more lives than a cat. If a wormhole through space couldn’t kill him, the Mandarin didn’t have a chance.

The sun went behind a cloud, and the temperature fell by a good five degrees. Fall was bleeding into winter, and the coffee shop was ready. Sure, the back rooms still needed work, and the little apartment upstairs was only half-finished, but Clint was sure they’d open for business tomorrow.

“It’s time to go,” Clint said, wishing he could hear himself. Movement made him turn to look, and his boss sat down across from him, putting down two mugs of coffee. Clint took it with a smile and mouthed his thank you.

_Don’t go. Work for me. ___

That was the meat of it, and the rest Clint didn’t try to decipher. He drank his coffee and considered it, but he knew he wasn’t cut out to make lattes and serve muffins. He’d go nuts and hurt someone. The wind ruffled his hair, and he brushed it back. Being homeless in winter wasn’t a good option. He could go back to the YMCA, but he had no money now. He’d spent the little he had on some work clothes and a new drill they’d desperately needed.

His boss touched Clint’s hand, bringing Clint’s full attention back to him. _Stay._

Decision made, Clint shook his head. “Sorry. This place is fixed. I’ll find another mess somewhere.” He didn’t look at the reaction or try to figure out the words his boss said. It was time to go. After a few minutes, his boss left, no doubt still talking, and Clint watched the people walk by and the sun dip behind the skyscrapers in silence.

When his mug was empty, he still wasn’t sure where to go. Construction would slow to a halt in winter, and if Stark was dead, the money to pay large crews would dry up. Clint couldn’t help but consider if he should just turn himself into Shield. His other alternative seemed to be living behind a dumpster and freezing to death. Neither sounded good. He shivered and did a quick perimeter check.

No one, but the hair on the back of his neck said that someone was watching him, and his hair never lied. He stretched, got to his feet, and hefted his mug. A mass of people went by, but a lone figure stood across the street, watching him behind sunglasses, wrapped in a trench coat against the wind.

Clint went inside without hurrying, but as soon as the door shut, he jogged up to his apartment and took the window out to the fire escape and down to the alley. His instincts yelled at him to run, but panicking was always a bad choice. He guessed his decision was made for him now. He’d run, and hopefully when he was safe, he’d be somewhere warm.

Movement flickered at the end of the alley, and he twisted, going up, making a jump, sliding down, and running as fast as he could to the subway entrance. Leaves swirled, people stepped aside, and he was down. He jumped the turnstile, sprinted to an open car and dropped into a seat, making sure he wasn’t visible from the outside.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and he whipped around, half-getting up. Shock shoved him the rest of the way down, and he was nearly stepped on, until Coulson extended his hand and pulled him back up into the seat.

The idea that he was crazy wasn’t a new one, but Coulson’s hand felt warm, strong, and Clint didn’t turn him loose. They sat together, neither speaking, and Clint wondered if Coulson had a million questions running through his brain. The car emptied at stop after stop, and Coulson squeezed Clint’s hand at the end of the line. They walked out together, and Clint didn’t question it. He followed him up and out to a town car that was waiting on the street. Coulson joined him in the back seat, and the driver was hidden behind a shaded partition.

Coulson eased his hand away and made several quick gestures, asking a familiar question.

“I’m not compromised. I trust you,” Clint said, needing the words, but seeing the wince around Coulson’s eyes. “Too loud?”

Coulson nodded.

“Slurring?”

Coulson nodded again. He shrugged. Clint slid their hands together, done with talking. This was real. Not a lie. If he was going to prison, at least he had this first. He used his other hand to spell out three letters. W-H-Y. Coulson pulled him close until they were huddled together and then kissed the side of Clint’s head. Clint supposed that was a good enough answer, and he shut his eyes, curling into Coulson’s offered warmth and safety.

********

Fury watched them get out of the car, holding hands like damn teenagers, and he knew there’d be no getting a paperclip between them now. He’d looked the other way when they’d started whatever the hell it was they shared. He'd been fooled because he'd been sure it was a joke. That they would fall into bed once or twice and then move on, but they hadn't. They'd taken long breaks, circled around, but they kept going back to each other, and now he was stuck with them both mooning around like lovesick children. 

Love was damn stupid.

“Sir.” Coulson put a lot of challenge into one word.

“Get him settled. Wheels up in five.” Fury strolled past Lola down the ramp to the tarmac. The last member of Coulson’s new team was on board, and they’d do fine. Fury slid into the backseat of the town car and tapped the window. It rolled down.

“Whaddya say we stop for burgers, Cap?”

Steve grinned. “Good idea, Director. They’ll be okay?”

“As okay as any of us.” Fury still didn’t understand why Sitwell had pushed for Grant Ward to be on Coulson’s new team, and that was something he’d look into immediately. Something was up at Shield, and Fury wasn’t going to stop until he got to the bottom of it. “Get moving. I’m hungry.”

The window rolled back up, but he heard Steve laughing. Captain America was full of spunk, and it was damn irritating. Almost as annoying as Stark, who never had the decency to stay dead. Fury had the feeling it was time to start pulling strings. He’d need the Avengers sooner rather than later. Damn it.

********

None of it seemed real, especially the part where he had a new team, made up of newbies and the indomitable Melinda May. She never said a word to him, and that was perfect. Everything on this plane was crazy, even the regular hot water and shaving each morning. Clint pulled the covers over his head, sure he didn’t want to face the day, but he smiled when Coulson’s arm wrapped around him.

They never talked. Clint had scrawled the word ‘deaf’ on his forearm in Sharpie the first day on the plane, and Coulson had glared at him for hours, but they hadn’t talked. Clint wasn’t sure he even remembered how.

The arm tightened, and Clint raised his face for a kiss. Neither of them were dead. Neither of them seemed very happy to be alive, but it was better together. Coulson never took off his undershirt, except to shower. Clint refused hearing implants. They stared at each other a lot, and Clint wondered about Coulson and his plans. Clint never touched a bow, but there were other weapons, and he never asked about the set of I.D. cards that listed him as Frank Ronin, Specialist, Level Five, expert in tactics, logistics, and sword fighting.

They never talked. It was easier that way. Clint didn’t ask forgiveness for his terrible crimes, and Coulson didn’t offer it. Natasha stormed aboard at their first fueling and yelled at both of them for hours. Hours. Clint had almost been glad he was deaf. He remembered the smell of her hair as she pressed a medal into his palm. She loved him. It was a good thing, but he couldn’t promise not to disappear again. The Medal of Honor he’d put in Coulson’s desk, giving it to a man who deserved it.

The WSC was still after Agent Clint Barton. Tasha confirmed it, and Coulson scowled, signing hard and fast about idiots. Clint didn’t care. Right now, he was warm, dry, and he was helping this little band of misfits clean up the mess left from the Chitauri. Maybe when summer returned, he’d find work on the construction sites, if Coulson didn’t mind.

A tap on the forehead brought him back, and he blinked. Coulson wiggled his way down, kissing and stroking, and Clint lost his train of thought, sinking into nothing but the pleasure of Coulson’s mouth on him. He gasped and groaned, wiggling around until he could return the favor, and they moved in rhythm, shoving and sucking.

Toes curled, Clint orgasmed, feeling so good, and he shoved the cock deep in his mouth, swirling his tongue. Coulson jerked, and Clint swallowed it all before rolling to his back, covers having been shoved aside long ago. They breathed together, hands touching idly, and he loved him.

They didn’t talk. It wasn’t a problem.

********

The end


End file.
